“Yes,” she says, forthrightly and directly over the top of I realise—, “yes, yes,” with the marked lack of patience of someone who has been writhing in agony about waiting for Satinalia for, possibly, weeks at this point. Not even the traces left of the bruising shadowing her face can detract from this for her, she’s maybe specifically decided, her knees settling either side of his thighs and her feet hooking between his calves.

(Still, they fit together. Still.)

“And then,” as graciously as some majestic creature bestowing beatitudes from a throne and not his lap, “you can give me yours.”

Which she’ll likely become excited for when it happens, but for now: the gleam of her eyes is absolutely dedicated to will he like this—